Into the Woods
by KendylGirl
Summary: A glimpse at Abbie and Crane in a peaceful respite before she leaves for the FBI **Any feedback that I might receive is VERY important to me, so please tell me what you think.**
1. Chapter 1

Smoke unfurls in lazy tumbles over his head, drawing his eyes away from the spiked frenzy of the fire. The clouds had vanished in the steady winds. Now, the gap in the circle of trees is just broad enough to reveal the points of the Summer Triangle positioned perfectly overhead. Bats click in the surrounding trees. For the first time in his life, he is able to recognize the similarity in the steady hum of insects to that of automobiles on a distant interstate.

A small sigh pulls all of his attention downward to the bundled sleeping form protected within the circle of his legs. The camping trip had been her idea. When she proposed it to him a week ago, he'd choked a bit on his tea in utter shock. Abbie had never seemed particularly fond of the out of doors. He has heard her tirade on the evils of mosquitoes and snail slime enough to repeat it back to her, though he has refrained from doing so to avoid the gut punch that would surely interrupt him. They certainly had spent enough time in the woods, but always it was duty and obligation that had brought them there. Never fun. Never pleasure.

"Come on, Crane. It'll be…relaxing. Just what we need now." Her eyes were downcast, occupied suddenly with her neatly trimmed nails. Her impending departure for Virginia had weighed heavily between them, an ever-growing ache that they'd denied. In the end, both she and their work would benefit from her new training; they knew that. That did not make the prospect any easier.

Brows knitted together, he spluttered, "I—I am not…I just—"

"No phones, no distractions, no stress," she continued. Then, she lifted her face and gazed directly into his eyes. "Just you and I."

Ichabod stared back, riveted. As if he could say no, given how hard they had worked; as if he could say no, given that she was leaving the next week.

As if he could say no, given that it was Abbie.

When she had started to retreat, to pull her bottom lip shyly between her teeth, he released it gently with the pad of his thumb, fingers hovering under her chin. A smile curled the edges of his mouth. "I can think of no better arrangement, Lieutenant. When do we leave?"

With a rented truck steeped in modern supplies, Crane hardly considered this to be the "roughing it" that Abbie had termed it. Packaged food immune to bug infestation, a waterproof tent to protect them from the elements, and self-warming blankets to keep them comfortable were marvels to him still. When he had said as much to Abbie, she had taken special delight in pulling from her backpack a cloth-wrapped item, handing it off to him to start the fire: flint and steel. He could only shake his head as she tried to stifle her giggle.

They had talked all afternoon and through the evening, swapping stories of childhood idiocy and favorite meals and Disney movies—light and effortless, as it had been at the start. Real, full laughter fell from them in waves. Ichabod hadn't felt this good in a long, long time. From the warm light filling Abbie's eyes, neither had she. The only darkness that dare encroach upon them was that of the approaching night.

Now, she dreams. Her head lies in the crux of his hip, face upturned, eyes moving beneath closed lids. Both her hands are wrapped possessively around Crane's right, pressed to her chest as if making a wish. Ichabod's free hand knits soft patterns through her hair, prompting her to snuggle tighter against him and, with his reverent kiss to her forehead, breathe another airy sigh.

He had been about to shift his position, spine aching from hours hunched in the lumpy grass. With her movements, his discomfort evaporates. He will sit here all night.

He studies the swell of her cheeks, the straight line of her brows, the enticing bloom of her mouth. Her face, in slumber, transforms; with her defenses down, an innocence surfaces that her conscious self wipes away. It shows not as frailty, but as purity, her true heart that only he sees. If it is possible, it makes her even more alluring. He knows that this is what he will think of in the months ahead, what he will see each night in his own dreams, until she returns to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Abbie pushes her cheek into her pillow, inhaling deeply its comforting aroma of pine and earth and well-worn cotton. The pillow is heated, curled to accommodate her head with utmost care. Her eyelids spark open, blinking slowly to readjust to the slice of dawn cutting through the trunks of the trees standing guard over the campsite. She sees the tent to her left, undisturbed. The fire still seeps smoke from glowing orange embers settled into the ash. Crane had manipulated it perfectly so that the warmth would carry them completely through the night.

Crane.

She inhales sharply when she discovers her pillow is Crane's chest. When she had drifted off in his lap, he stayed with her, supporting her head and keeping her precious limbs from lying completely on the ground. Though he had slumped over during the night, he'd curved himself under Abbie and enfolded her within his coat, so that he, not she, now presses into the damp grass. Abbie is wrapped around his legs, torso flush with his, face curled just below his chin. She is baffled to discover that, despite the odd tangle of their limbs, she had awoken with none of the nagging back or neck aches that she usually experienced when rising from her own bed and its pricey mattress. Though she'd spent the night on the forest floor, with Ichabod cuddling her in just the right way, she feels rejuvenated.

He still breathes in deep regular rhythms. A smile plays on Abbie's lips. She knows that he had sacrificed his own comfort for hers, again. It was so completely unnecessary. At the same time, it was so Crane, so completely endearing.

She tries to mould further into him, to commit to memory this one moment of pure bliss. Months from now, when she thrashes restlessly in her bed at Quantico, mind racing and exhaustion clawing at her sanity, it is this Abbie will think of to soothe her, to make the stress and the loneliness manageable until she returns to Sleepy Hollow. To him.

The beat of his heart resonates in her ear. It is hypnotic, and she drifts back to sleep, matching the pace of his breathing with her own.


	3. Chapter 3

The silver nose of the boat surges through the brown water, a steady arrow pushing fat waves to its sides. Abbie folds her arms behind her head. She smiles up at the cumulus clouds decorating the column of sky above the river and stretches her legs, wiggling her bare toes against Crane's knee. He faces her, an oar in each hand, pulling them in absent circles. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hair loose around his face. He flicks a finger to tickle her foot and is rewarded by her impish giggle.

Abbie had wanted to spend the day around the river, but the gurgling muddy waters from recent rains made it less than inviting for swimming. She had seen the canoe livery on their drive in.

"Do you…know how to row a boat, Crane?"

He seemed aghast at the question. "A hollowed canoe, Lieutenant, is hardly a complex piece of modern technology…." After listening to the tactical details of various war missions he'd executed in the swamps with native scouts, Abbie held up her hands in surrender.

"Ok, ok, Captain. Show me what you've got."

Abbie closes her eyes as the sun emerges to spotlight her face. She doesn't know if that is what makes her so warm or if it is Ichabod's gaze, unabashedly absorbed by the sight of her in her sleeveless yellow top and khaki shorts that reveal delicious lines of soft brown skin.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" She leans her arm over the edge of the boat and runs a finger through the surface of the water.

"Stunning." His voice is low, his meaning clear.

She peeks an eye open. Her cheeks amp up another couple of degrees and her smile deepens.

High on the bank, there is an abrupt rustling of shrubbery, followed by loud splashes, a cascade of rocks sprayed into the river from several skittish deer racing from the water's edge and into the forest. In the tumult, the boat begins to buck. Abbie scrambles up and grabs at the sides of the canoe, gripping the metal edges tightly.

Crane alters the craft's direction smoothly and the disturbance fades, but he has caught the brief surge of panic in Abbie's eyes. His mind flashes to the sight of her lying motionless on the tile floor of the library, soaked to the bone; his stomach churns, reliving the choking fear of that moment, the helpless anguish of thinking her dead, lost to him. _No, no, no—Abbie!_ A veil crosses his face; his humor vanishes. He tightens his grip on the oars and pushes forward.

Abbie rolls her shoulders and settles back. _Damn_. Her own reaction has caught her off guard. She really thought she'd made her peace with the water after the Weeping Lady. Apparently that was an optimistic belief that lived upon the land, and she's hoping Crane didn't notice. One glance at his hardened features, and she knows he has. He never misses anything.

 _No_ , she thinks. _No way. The ghosts of the past are not welcome. There is no way_ anything _is going to spoil this day._

She slides forward, hooking her legs around the seat and using her abdominal muscles to flip her body up to a sitting position. In the small interior of the boat, her face is quite suddenly inches from Ichabod's. Their knees touch. She's so completely in his space that the last turn of the oars causes his hands brush down her bare arms and stop at her waist.

Her plan works.

Ichabod stills, nonplussed, fists frozen against her middle. His thoughts derail as he tilts his chin slightly to look take in her copper brown eyes. Have those flecks of gold always been there? Her right eyebrow arches and her lips part in a satisfied grin. _God, she is beautiful_.

"Nice job. You've got some pretty powerful strokes there, Crane."

She pulls her elbows in, forcing his hands tighter against her, and lets her finger tips stray across his knees. Her innuendo is not lost on him. It does not fluster him further; rather, it emboldens him. He turns his toes inward, pulling the bottom half of her legs completely against his. His expression mimics hers, and he murmurs, "If I had a dime for every time I heard that sentiment, I'd be a wealthy man."

Abbie throws her head back and laughs from her core. "Now you're talking!"

Crane cannot deny the stab of self-satisfaction. He dearly loves to exceed her expectations, and keeping one as sharp as Abbie Mills on her toes is no easy task. He relishes these moments.

They silently regard each other, neither moving to give the other more space.

"Of all of the things we could have done with your last week in Sleepy Hollow, what made you suggest a camping venture?"

"I know, a little weird for me, right?" Her shoulder lifts in a brief shrug. "I just wanted to be…unreachable…to the rest of the world. For just a little while, at least. Everything about being a Witness is for others, for the greater good. I wanted this to be just for me." Her eyes flicker to his mouth, and she corrects herself. "I wanted this to be for _us_. Sort of our own private island."

His hands open and wrap around her waist. With a glint in his eye, he suggests, "I see, sort of like Roanoke, then…"

She rolls her eyes and pushes his knees apart so she can scoot in even closer. "Yeah, sure, but minus the pestilence. And Middle English is way overrated."

Their eyes are nearly parallel now. It is perfectly natural for their foreheads to lean against one another, a perfectly natural turn of the head that allows their lips to meet.

Perfect. Natural.

They float down the river with the current.

Neither notices the tree branch until it whacks Crane in the back of the head. Somehow, they had drifted to the shore. Staring upriver over Abbie's head, he sees two fading yellow logs floating in their wake. The oars.

Crane groans. "We might need those, Lieutenant."

She whips around, then collapses against him in a fit of giggles. "Guess I lost my deposit."

As Ichabod starts molding suitable apologies in his head, her hands settle on both his cheeks, fingers swirling in his beard. "Worth every penny."


	4. Chapter 4

**Again, please share you thoughts with me; I greatly appreciate your feedback!**

"Lieutenant?"

"Hmmm?"

"What is your happiest memory?"

Her low chuckle vibrates against his shoulder. "Do you mean in the last hour, or…"

Crane forms a broad smile in the darkness. He draws her tighter against him, never tiring of the silken warmth of her skin. "No, you wicked girl. I know that would be far too challenging a question for so late an hour."

She tilts her head and takes a quick nip at his jawline, then smoothes over the same spot with swirls of her tongue. She feels the goosebumps percolate down his left side, hears his breath catch in his throat. _Gotcha_. Even in the blind darkness of the tent, he is adorable.

"I was referring to distant memories, ones from your youth."

Abbie settles her head on his chest and considers his question. "Let's see, happy memories in the Mills household…That's a tough one."

She is silent for a time. Ichabod makes gentle sweeps of his hand up and down her back. Finally, he whispers, "Forgive me; I do not wish for you to relive a hundred painful thoughts merely to retrieve one that was good."

"No, no, it's fine, Crane. I'm just…thinking." She is quiet for a few more minutes. When she continues, her voice sounds distant. "The summer Jenny turned six, I taught her to ride a bicycle. My parents had been having a rough time, arguing constantly. I guess Mama was already seeing demons by then…Anyway, they forgot Jenny's birthday. No presents, no cake—nothing. Dad took off, and Jenny sat all afternoon in the living room, waiting for Mama to come downstairs. She never did."

Abbie pauses, swallowing hard at the ingrained image of her sister perched on the edge of the couch, gripping its arm, her eyes swollen and nose dripping. Ichabod feels a stab at the strain in Abbie's voice. He listens to her breathe; despite the deafening symphony of crickets in the woods around them, it is all he can hear. Abruptly, he slides his thumb across her upturned cheek, wiping away the tear he knows he will find there.

"Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed all the money I had, which wasn't much, and snuck out the back door. I didn't really know where I was going, but I got two blocks over and saw the Donaldsons were having a garage sale. I always hated those things—people palming their junk off on somebody else—but, for some reason, I walked up their driveway and saw it: a little green bike propped against the bushes."

"You purchased it for her?"

"Yeah. Mrs. Donaldson was a nice lady. I shoved my little wad at her, and without saying a word, she flattened out every one of the bills, took half, and gave me back the rest. When I got back to the house, I made Jenny cover her eyes, and I drug her out to the sidewalk by her sleeve."

"Was she grateful for your gift?"

Abbie snorts. "To be honest, I think she was a little afraid. She'd never even touched a bike before. But you know Jenny. She can never back down from a challenge."

Crane's eyes widen. "No, I cannot even imagine that."

"Well, it took her two hours, four Band-Aids, and one major hissy fit, but she won. By sunset, she was tearing up and down the street like she owned it."

Crane grunts. "Having seen Ms. Jenny drive an automobile, I am sure she was quite the traffic hazard. Tell me, do the authorities in this era issue violations to non-motorized conveyances as well?"

Abbie laughs. "Well, seeing that look of triumph on her face…it was the best. I think that was the first time that I felt like she and I would be o.k., no matter what else was going on. We could do it, we could make it."

Crane scoops up her hand and kisses her palm. "Strength and resilience are undeniable in the Mills women."

Abbie closes her eyes and squeezes his torso. Would compliments ever get easier to hear? She plants a soft kiss to the scar on his chest. "What about you, Crane? What's your best memory?"

He does not release her hand, but holds it securely within his. "From the year I turned ten, upon the eve of the New Year. The night was quite brisk, neither moon nor cloud present. I recall standing in front of our home looking up to the sky. There were so many stars, nothing like what one sees in this time."

Abbie can hear a hint of wonderment in his voice. She loves that sound; it betrays the sweet innocence that lies just beneath the staid scholar. It draws her closer; she stretches up so that her head rests inside the crook of his neck.

"I was so enthralled that I did not hear my father approach. He did not speak at first, merely stood next to me and watched the heavens as well. At length, he commented that the stars seemed enchanted that evening. He was correct, of course; there indeed seemed some special quality to the air.

"Then he did something most unexpected: he laid his hand upon my shoulder and said, 'The stars are our protectors, our teachers; they remind us of the Eternal, that what is good in the world will endure, that somehow _we_ will endure. You are a part of that, Ichabod. Your destiny is wrapped within the stars and will take you to beyond what even you might think possible.' After he spoke, he squeezed my shoulder with… _affection…_ and returned indoors."

Abbie runs her fingertips across his collarbone. "Crane, do you think he knew you were a Witness?"

Ichabod clears his throat. "The thought has occurred to me, but I find it unlikely that he possessed a complete knowledge of what was to come, especially given his eventual disavowal of my existence…Still, it was the only time I can recall him displaying such an obvious faith in me. He was rarely kind, rarely approving of much of anything I had done, so this encounter was…unique. Had I no eidetic memory, it would nonetheless be imprinted upon my brain."

Abbie's heart feels heavy for him. She knows he has probably spent many nights since his arrival in America looking up into the night sky, unable to reconcile that moment with the ache of being shunned by the very same man.

She suddenly realizes that this is another tie that binds her to him: becoming an orphan from the deliberate act of a parent and struggling to survive in the world alone. The core of security that family should have provided, for them, had been ephemeral at best, each time twisted and ripped away: Father, Mama, Washington, Corbin, Jenny, Katrina, Daddy, Henry.

Abbie raises herself up on her elbow, barely able in the darkness to catch a glint from his eye as he turns his head toward her. "So it's true, then, what you said?"

Crane blinks. "I'm afraid you will need to be more specific. According to Ms. Jenny, I say far too many things."

"'All we really get is one another.'"

Ichabod stills, the import of his own words working upon him. "Do you think…is that _why_ we…"

He trails off, clarity expanding his heart into his throat. Abbie felt it, too; she was trembling.

She more senses than sees the resolve in his eye. "Gladly, Lieutenant," he whispers. "I would gladly live it again and again, every bit of loneliness, every _bit_ of wrenching pain, if every time it would lead me here. To **you**."

Her head is swimming. "How…but…are you sure? How can you be sure? There's been so much—"

"I just know. _I know._ " The hand he wraps behind her neck is curiously still. "Do you not as well?"

Abbie is frozen by the question. She cannot believe her response, even as it leaves her mouth. "Yes. Yes, I do."

What she cannot believe most of all is how certain she is that she means it.

Crane exhales forcefully. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. Relief floods him, and he pulls Abbie onto him in a crushing embrace. Crane had never thought of himself as a "lucky" man. Tragedies aside, he had always tried to remain steadfast to the principle of consciously choosing a path and living with the consequences, for better or for worse. However, this belief was no longer an absolute. He had traveled the chaos of thousands of miles and hundreds of years, and somehow had found his perfect opposite. The dim chance that he could have done so solely of his own volition is oddly comforting.

Abbie clings to him, face buried in his neck. In her experience, the equation of life's ironies was hardly ever resolved to the positive. All along she had sought the purpose for the misery she'd faced throughout her life. One purpose had to have been forming the steel backbone needed to handle the great responsibility of being a Witness. However, she could not have imagined that the other was, ultimately, to guide her to her one true happiness.

It's almost too much. Gratitude and love tumble through them in equal parts. Pure desire. Crane's urgent hands skate over and around her body, as if he is trying to verify her presence, to confirm she is real. Abbie has the same intensity. She drags her fingers through his hair, kisses his forehead, his eyes, his mouth. Neither says a word; at this point, neither needs to. Both know what the other is thinking:

 _Finally. Finally, after all, I actually get_ ** _you_** _._


	5. Chapter 5

Abbie slams the tailgate shut. All the gear is packed; Crane pours water on the embers of the fire pit and carefully folds the flint and steel back into its cloth cocoon in Abbie's backpack. They stand on opposite sides of the grassy clearing they'd occupied. Somehow, it looks smaller now than when it had been filled by their belongings.

The lurch in her stomach forces Abbie to stuff her hands into her pockets and drop her eyes to her feet. Crane's hands are clasped behind him, and he is looking so intently at the ground, it is as if he's searching for something among the flattened blades. The silence lingers.

At the same abrupt moment, they relent. Their words overlap and die off.

"Lieutenant, I suppose we should…"

"Crane, are you ready to…"

Abbie sends him a soft smile. "Is there such a thing as being **too** in sync?"

Crane holds her gaze and shakes his head slowly. "No."

Abbie can feel the tears pushing at the edge of her vision. She gulps a swallow to push them down. _Don't make it any harder_ , she chides herself, but even her iron will is no match for the idea of leaving this safe haven, then walking away from him and onto a plane in two days.

Crane has been waging his own internal war to maintain some semblance of dignity, reminding himself of the innumerable battles he's faced eagerly with weapons blazing. How could it be that none were a fraction as daunting as having to withstand her absence, even knowing it to be temporary? _Get a grip, man._ His fingers flex in spasms behind his back.

When he sees her eyes fog over, he's propelled forward.

"Abbie…"

A sob bubbles out of her, and she reaches for him. They meet in the center of the circle. Crane's arms envelop her tiny form. "All will be well, Treasure," he murmurs into her hair, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. It is a wonder to him how his heart could be at once so full and so empty.

Abbie squeezes her eyes shut. She lets herself melt into his warmth, the tenor of his voice, his intoxicating smell. _Her_ Crane. She now knows she can say that with certainty, so why is she letting herself get sidetracked with the negative? _Old habits_ , she cringes.

She leans back just far enough to see his face. "I'm sorry, Crane. I'm being ridiculous."

"You are nothing of the sort," he scoffs, moving a section of her hair behind her ear.

"I just…don't want it to end. This whole trip has been _so_ …" Her voice falters when she realizes she has no adjective that fits.

Great? Not enough.

Amazing? Still too tame.

Special? Not even close.

Finally, it dawns on Abbie to do what she has spent most of her life conditioning herself **not** to do: speak plainly, from the heart. Walls and reservations were survival tools for use with the rest of the world. But in this spot, encircled by _his_ arms, those defenses were taking up space she was not willing to share.

She squares her shoulders and centers on the summer blue of his eyes. "Everything. This time has been **everything** to me because _you_ are everything to me. I knew the day I met you that something was different, that something had _changed_." Her fingers clench around the small of his back, yet her tone remains open. "I wasn't sure what that meant. But there was always so much craziness going on, it really took me until now to get it."

Ichabod's throat is tight. His eyes glaze with moisture, not solely from the words she says, but from the fact that she has said them at all. He knows her well. His Abigail has ever approached emotion with two fists in the air; for her to willingly allow such vulnerability is an honor that he does not accept lightly.

He raises a hand to cup her cheek, and she leans into his touch. "Oh, Abbie…"

She clutches his shoulders, her face suddenly fierce. "I love you, Ichabod Crane. You know that, right? I love you. So, be ready, because I'm not the easiest person to deal with. I'm stubborn and I'm irritable and I'm—

"Perfection. You are intelligent, beautiful perfection. As tender as you are honest, as clever as you are strong…and, before you, I thought I knew something of love...but now I see that I didn't. I couldn't have." His thumb traces her cheekbone. "Before you, I never even suspected what it was to be irrevocably in love with another."

Ichabod gathers her up in his arms at the very moment she leaps. He kisses her. Or she kisses him. It didn't really matter—it was _them:_ deep and sensual, a complete promise of devotion and passion, both new and familiar. In sync.

It was a long time before Abbie's feet feel earth beneath them. She fails miserably to squelch the rush of heat that flowed through her, half considering tearing a sleeping bag from the truck and— _no, come on, Abbie!_ When she sees Crane's eyes flicker to the vehicle as well, her knees feel weak.

Desperate for distraction, she clears her throat. "So, are you going to help me pack?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Of course. I managed to carry a camp's worth of supplies on my person during the war; I certainly can organize your travel cases with due efficiency."

She lays her hands flat against his chest. "And you'd better find your cell charger. You are **required** to have your phone with you at _all times_. If I need something…" She leans up and kisses his neck; his cheeks redden. "...or just want to hear you say my name…" Her fingers snake into the waistband of his pants, and Crane gasps. "…you need to be there, o.k.?" She takes his earlobe between her lips, and he barely stifles a whimper.

"Y-you can rest assured, Abbie, I will be at your disposal, day or night."

She looks him up and down, her copper-brown eyes more enchanting than Ichabod has ever seen them. _How could that be possible?_ "We can worry about that tomorrow," she purrs. "I think you'll be plenty busy when we get home."

"I…I will? With what, precisely?"

Her face splits in a broad grin. She takes his hand in hers, interlacing their fingers tightly. Crane's eyebrow creeps up once again, and she squeezes his hand. "You ready, Captain?"

He raises their joined hands to his lips. "Quite ready, Lieutenant."


	6. Epilogue

"Utilizing merely his thumb?" The voice was incredulous.

"Yep, and he went down. Like, **down**."

"How large was this fellow?"

"About three inches taller than you. And 75 pounds heavier."

A long whistle flowed from the receiver. "My, my, Lieutenant, you are a terror! That man clearly had no idea what he was getting into whilst challenging a Mills to combat. Poor sod."

Abbie giggles into her pillow. "Yeah, I think I made a friend. Well, that'll be the last short joke he'll ever make."

Crane's low chuckle vibrates the phone.

There are a few seconds of silence.

"I'm proud of you, Lieutenant."

Abbie stares at the glowing keypad, a blush tinging her face and ears. It is the only thing that makes her briefly glad for the privacy of being 300 miles away.

Crane inhales. "And not just for your obvious aplomb for combat, though I must add that you would have made a fine soldier. You'd surely have replaced me as Washington's favorite."

Abbie bites her bottom lip, cheeks fully aflame. "That's not true!"

His voice is liquid velvet. "I'm proud of you for your clarity of purpose, your perseverance. You set a lofty goal, and you've realized it, no matter the obstacles that attempted to interfere. You are fearless."

"Crane…" Her voice is small. He knows that part of her might feel a certain amount of guilt for her decision to go, which is unacceptable to him. His surprise arrival in Sleepy Hollow, the discovery of their mission together, had been thrust upon her, and she had dismissed her own ambitions without hesitation. Now, all she was ever going to hear from him would be the reassurance and support she deserves.

She can see his face as if her were lying in the bed next to her. If she reaches out, she thinks she can almost touch his warm skin, rub her cheek against his soft beard, slide her tongue across his lips. Her fingers clench the pillow case, and she rolls onto her back to stare at the plain drop ceiling above her head.

"I miss you, Crane."

"And I, you, Lieutenant."

"Still love me?"

"Every second. Every moment. With _every_ _breath_."

Her eyes close. She wraps her arms around herself, a poor substitute for his embrace, and sinks lower inside her covers. "Say it," she pleads.

"I love you. I love you, Abbie."

A whisper: "Again…"

"I love you, Abbie…My Abbie…"

Her mind is foggy; sleep pushes against her, but she murmurs, "Again…"

After two months apart, Crane has come to know this ritual well. It is the very best part of his day.

"Abbie…"


End file.
